It is four days before Christmas, at two in the afternoon. I'msitting in the back of a pitch-black limousine parked in front of anondescript brownstone oʃ Fifth Avenue trying to read an articleabout Donald Trump in the new issue of Fame magazine. Jeanettewants me to come in with her but I say "Forget it." She has ablack eye from last night since I had to coerce her over dinner atIl Marlibro to even consider doing this; then, after a more forcefuldiscussion at my apartment, she consented. Jeanette's dilemmalies outside my deɹnition of guilt, and I had told her, truthfully,over dinner that it was very hard for me to express concern forher that I don't feel. During the entire drive from my place on theUpper West Side, she's been sobbing. The only clear, identiɹableemotion coming from her is desperation and maybe longing, andthough I successfully ignore her for most of the ride I ɹnally haveto tell her, "Listen, I've already taken two Xanax this morning so,uh, you're incapable of, like, upsetting me." Now, as she stumblesout of the limo onto the frozen pavement, I mumble, "It's for thebest," and, oʃering consolation, "Don't take it so seriously." Thedriver, whose name I've forgotten, leads her into the brownstoneand she gives a last, regretful look back. I sigh and wave her oʃ.She's still wearing, from last night, a leopard-print cottonbalmacaan coat with wool challis lining over a wool crepeshirtless dress by Bill Blass. Bigfoot was interviewed on The PattyWinters Show this morning and to my shock I found himsurprisingly articulate and charming. The glass I'm drinkingAbsolut vodka from is Finnish. I'm very suntanned compared toJeanette.The driver comes out of the building, gives me thumbs-up,carefully pulls the limousine away from the curb and begins thetrek to JFK airport, where my ɻight to Aspen leaves in ninetyminutes. When I get back, in January, Jeanette will be out of thecountry. I relight a cigar, search for an ashtray. There's a churchon the corner of this street. Who cares? This is, I think, the ɹfthchild I've had aborted, the third I haven't aborted myself (auseless statistic, I admit). The wind outside the limousine is briskand cold and the rain hits the darkened windows in rhythmicwaves, mimicking Jeanette's probable weeping in the operatingroom, dizzy from the anesthesia, thinking about a memory fromher past, a moment where the world was perfect. I resist theimpulse to start cackling hysterically.At the airport I instruct the chauʃeur to stop by F.A.O. Schwarzbefore picking Jeanette up and purchase the following: a doll, arattle, a teething ring, a white Gund polar bear, and have themsitting in the backseat for her, unwrapped. Jeanette should beokay—she has her whole life in front of her (that is, if she doesn'trun into me). Besides, this girl's favorite movie is Pretty in Pinkand she thinks Sting is cool, so what is happening to her is, like,not totally undeserved and one shouldn't feel bad for her. This isno time for the innocent.
